


one good thing

by clayre



Series: picture it, soft [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Getting to Know Each Other, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25039222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayre/pseuds/clayre
Summary: Oh no,she thought,he’s funny.The Warden meets Alistair.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age)
Series: picture it, soft [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1812277
Comments: 8
Kudos: 43





	one good thing

**Author's Note:**

> WOW two lil fic uploads in two days? yes. i have dragon age brain worms. LOL i kinda hesitate tagging this alistair/warden tho because it's only the very beginning of their friendship, but i feel like they flirt enough in here to justify it...... 😳 & we all know they end up together so. my house my rules. LMAO

Halfway through the Bannorn, the Warden ─ or rather, the Warden-Recruit ─ had begun to realize that she wasn’t entirely well-traveled. Her family had taken her to Bann’s estates, of course, and she still remembered the first time she’d attended a Landsmeet in Denerim: it was an august affair, and of course she’d been bored to tears at the time. Her mother had chastised her for leaning against her, illustrating how a proper lady was to stand at the Landsmeet, straight and at attention and demure, and reminding the Warden-Recruit that she represented the Cousland house. She’d said as much, but she’d put an arm around the Warden-Recruit when she inevitably leaned into her side again, supporting the dead weight of her lolling head.

The Bannorn was a different beast than the functions of high society, however. Duncan led her through villages smaller than the west wing of Castle Cousland, more crop field than actual buildings, past fields of hardy wildflowers that could persevere through Ferelden’s harsh climates. As they’d passed through the bigger towns, stocking up on rations, she’d seen unfortunate men and women and children lined up along streets, hands outstretched for coin. All along she’d known, as the beloved daughter of a very wealthy, powerful family, that she’d had an idyllic life, but it was different witnessing the contrast up close. She realized that, despite governing over a large portion of Ferelden, there was much of it she’d yet to have seen firsthand ─ and much of it that she’d done nothing to improve.

Still, she’d never known a home other than Highever. If she ever left, she always returned within the month; she spent her girlhood there, and she’d thought she would have spent the rest of her life there. At one point, the thought would have felt stifling, suffocating, and she had wanted very badly to march with her father and Fergus, so that she might see sights that weren’t the same castle walls and snowy hills.

But now, that was all she wanted: to sneak into the kitchen while Nan was making supper to steal scraps for her hound, to jump out at Oren from behind one of Aldous’ bookshelves and scare him until they laughed themselves to tears, to have tea with Oriana and pretend to gag when Fergus swept into the room and bent to kiss his beautiful wife.

At one point, she’d very politely excused herself for a moment; Duncan watched from atop the Imperial Highway while the Warden-Recruit calmly and decorously marched into the expanse of the Bannorn’s fields, far away from any outpost or village, and then screamed at nothing until her throat was raw. He didn’t say anything when she tastefully rejoined him after having composed herself, but he’d put a hand on the back of her neck and squeezed, and she’d felt better than she had in the days since they first took to the roads.

Unfortunately, it hadn’t lasted. Their arrival to Ostagar was mostly mundane, save for their royal welcome: the king himself had greeted them, and Cailan had recognized right away that she was Bryce’s youngest. News of her brother was grim, however. He was out in the Wilds, and the outpost simply had no way to reach him. When he returned, the Warden-Recruit would have had to tell him that his wife and child lie dead, along with their mother, their father, everyone they had ever loved.

Suffice to say, whatever comfort she’d found in the Bannorn seemed distant and unattainable once again. Duncan had the grace to allow her some modicum of independence in Ostagar; his only request was that she’d meet with a Warden named Alistair, and to return with him so that they might set her oath in stone. He’d hesitated before he’d taken her mabari over the impressive, time-worn bridge, and punctuated his orders with, “I apologize that we’ve no time to waste, Lady Cousland. There will be a moment to rest soon.”

The campsite itself was sparse, or at least the area she was restricted to. A guard had helpfully pointed out sections of interest as she crossed the threshold, and she’d made quick work of finding them ─ as well as two other Warden-Recruits. Ser Jory was an unassuming man she felt very mildly toward, and the cutpurse was leery fellow, but she’d written him off as ultimately harmless. Still, it was a strange experience; neither of them seemed particularly impressive, not like the heroes she’d believed Grey Wardens to be. She’d imagined a throng of men like Duncan, calm and serious and stoic. The disappointment, amplified by her grief, that these men were desperate and taking any willing body tasted more bitter than it had any right to. She hadn’t known _what_ to expect, but Jory and Daveth lacked a certain . . . gravitas, and she found herself wondering how many of those old Grey Warden stories were true. If this was the brotherhood she had to look forward to, for the rest of her life, she was suddenly very reluctant to proceed with the Joining . . . whatever it was.

Alistair was next, and she’d spent the last handful of minutes biding her time and chatting with anyone who looked interesting ─ Teyrn Loghain had granted her a brief, curt audience, an Ash warrior had told her the legacy of their order, and she’d even accosted a prisoner, who had no choice but to talk to her, locked away as he was. Then she’d spoken with a mage named Wynne, who had immediately launched into an allegory about darkspawn and what they represented. Admittedly, she was so exhausted that the lecture went in one ear and out the other, but it reminded her of Aldous, and as such she was instantly endeared to the old woman.

Eventually, though, she’d run out of willing conversation partners. There was to be no more vying for time, or longing to go back to a life that ended not so long ago. Speaking to Alistair would signify her commitment to the order, and she would never be a Cousland again; he would lead her through the Joining, and her pledge to the Wardens would be ironclad. She’d heard stories of the Wardens, heroes of honor and glory, nameless in all aspects outside of their esteem, faceless champions known only by tireless acts of service for their country. She may yet live, but Howe had succeeded: the Cousland legacy was annihilated as soon as she swore her oath to the Wardens and renounced her family name.

 _No,_ she thought, _Fergus still lives. Nothing has ended. My word was given the moment Duncan asked for it. There’s no turning back, pup, but there’s always moving onward._

Even as she tried to assure herself, she was heavy footed and heavy hearted when she finally approached the ruins of what once must have been a grand tower, circular and in disrepair. In the enclosure were two men; one dressed in mage’s robes, and another in the Grey Warden crest. From what she could see of him, he was tall and strawberry blond and making the mage very, very upset.

They hardly spared her a glance when she crossed into the ring, and she stood a polite distance away and very gladly listened into the conversation that was happening, if only because the drama of it all took her mind away from her own tragic tale.

“Here I thought we were getting along so well!” the Warden taunted, delightedly. “I was even going to name one of my children after you.” As soon as the words left his mouth, his demeanor changed from faux-friendly to smug. “The grumpy one.”

The mage’s hand swiped through the air to indicate the conversation was over. “Enough. I’ll speak to the woman if I must.” He spun on his heel primly, saying to the Warden-Recruit, “Get out of my way, _fool.”_

The Warden-Recruit watched him leave from over her shoulder, and when she turned back, the other Warden ─ _Alistair,_ she reminded herself ─ was drawing near to her, all swagger in his shoulders. He looked to be about her age, possibly even younger, and he was . . . shockingly good-looking. 

She’d imagined all of the Wardens would have been grizzled and battle-worn with deep-set frowns, but Alistair was all charm in his smile and handsome in his eyes, with golden skin dotted with freckles. She knew she shouldn’t have judged, but looking at him, she wasn’t surprised he was the newest Grey Warden. His manner was youthful and high spirited, and his very pretty face was pristine and unblemished: no scars, no wrinkles, nothing that would indicate he’d lived an experienced life. Bitterly, she wondered if he was just a young man in over his head, seeking glory and valor, much like King Cailan seemed to be ─ and then she reminded herself that she, too, was young, and not all battle scars could be seen by eye.

Alistair stopped in front of her, and she found herself raking her eyes over him once more, for good measure. Handsome and big all over, broad in shoulders and arms, but tight at the waist. Well, if she simply _had_ to go through with this Grey Warden business, at least the view would be decent. “You know,” he was saying, lilting, “one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.”

The Warden-Recruit was mourning. Her family laid dead, all the good people who have served her family laid dead. Her older brother, her dearest friend, was far from her, none the wiser of the tragedy that occurred. Her nephew whom she adored, her brother’s only son, was slain. Her life as she knew it was forever changed.

And yet she laughed. The force of it came boiling out of her, like a pot left unattended over an open flame, and despite the grief heavy in her stomach, the laughter was light in her chest, her throat. The thought of Howe coming together with the Couslands, in the time of Blight, and then murdering her entire lineage shouldn’t have been funny at all, but the absurdity of it, the irony of his words, made her throw her head back in mirth, unwillingly laughing. _Oh no,_ she thought, _he’s funny._

“I know exactly what you mean,” she managed to say between her hysterics, and she tried to tamp down on the instant desire to be friends with him. She was trying to be upset, for Maker’s sake, and she wasn’t a girl anymore. She couldn’t just glom onto the nearest friendly face.

“It’s like a party: we could all stand in a circle and hold hands.” His brows arched up, and he tilted his head as though deep in contemplation. _“That_ would give the darkspawn something to think about.” The sound of her laughter drew his attention again, and he grinned at her like they were sharing a secret ─ and then, all at once, he looked her up and down and said, “Wait. We haven’t met yet, have we? I don’t suppose you would happen to be another mage?”

She found herself smiling back, so wide it hurt her cheeks, and the simple act of it was like relief in her bones. “Would that make your day worse?”

“Hardly. I just like to know my chances of being turned into a toad at any given moment.” He was squinting at her as he spoke, and then his face cleared. Something in his disposition went a little more sober. “Wait. I do know who you are. You’re Duncan’s new recruit, from Highever. I should have recognized you right away. I apologize.”

“That’s all right. No offense taken.”

His mouth twitched, like he was fighting a smile. “Good. You didn’t exactly catch me at my best with the mage there. Allow me to introduce myself: I’m Alistair, the new Grey Warden. Though I . . . guess you knew that. Did you know that? Yes, of course, you knew ─ that. Er.” She cocked a brow, thoroughly charmed. When she inclined her head towards him in the affirmative, looking up at him through her lashes as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, he stumbled over his words for a moment, then cleared his throat. “As, ah, the junior member of the order, I’ll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining.” She must have made a face, because Alistair barked out a laugh. “Now, now. Save that sneering for the darkspawn. Speaking of. Have you ever actually encountered one before? About ye high and eager to eat your face off, can’t possibly miss them.”

“No, I haven’t.” A beat. “Thank the Maker.”

The curve of Alistair’s mouth was boyish and charming, a little crooked in a way that made him seem almost cocky, and she noted, in reluctant delight, that his eyes crinkled beautifully when he smiled. Rather terrible luck, she thought, to be the junior to a debonair and smart-mouthed Warden, rather than the grizzled, stern one. _“Ooh,_ well I _must_ say that you’re in for quite the treat. Very handsome fellows, pleasant conversation partners. I say, _hello there, how are you?_ And they say, _grrrraaaggghhh!”_

Ah. Maybe not so debonair, but somehow even better. He was certainly attractive, but his humor thawed her in increments, even as she wanted to remain passive. She tried to quell her smile, but the look on Alistair’s face confirmed she was doing a poor job of it. “Sarcasm does not become you, ser.”

“Truly? I’ve always thought I look my best when I’m acting clever. But a lady never lies, or so I’ve been told. Unless, of course, the lady who told me so was lying. Maker, I may need to lie down.” The Warden-Recruit found herself openly grinning, too weak to resist it, and she shook her head wryly. Alistair looked very pleased with himself, having watched her lose the battle. “You know . . . it just occurred to me that there have never been many women in the Grey Wardens. I wonder why that is.”

“Probably because we’re too smart for you,” she taunted, easy and lighthearted ─ two things she hadn’t felt since she’d left Highever with Duncan.

Alistair’s smile somehow widened even further, and his brow arched up high. “True,” he drew the word out, “but if you’re here, what does that make _you?”_

Ah. Very good point, not that she’d tell him so out loud. Shifting on her feet, she hiked her shoulders up, hands raised in a shrug. She guessed, lamely, “Just one of the boys?”

He jostled her when he threw an arm around her shoulders, steering her back towards the main encampment, and he was smirking at her like they’d been lifelong friends. “Sad, isn’t it?”

She decided, then and there, that she rather liked Ser Alistair.

“Alistair,” she said, wiping the blood from her face with her forearm, “look at this.”

The Warden drew near to her, his sword dripping with darkspawn rot. He bent in half over her from where she was kneeled to read the missive she held in her stained hands; she was careful not to smear the blood over the words. “Ah,” he said, once he’d finished. “Tragic, that. Imagine coming out to the Wilds to spread word of the Maker during a Blight. Well, that’s dedication for you.” He paused when he saw the way she was looking at him, and he raised both brows slowly. “We . . . really don’t have time.”

“We _just_ cleared those Chasind ruins out,” she insisted, hoisting herself to her feet. “This woman deserves to know that her son and husband lie dead. He details a lockbox here that he’d like her to have. Don’t you think she deserves closure?” From the corner of her eye, she saw Ser Daveth scrounging valuables from darkspawn corpses, and Jory further on, nervously scanning the greenery for more.

“Well, yes, of course I do,” Alistair agreed, reluctantly, “but these aren’t exactly friendly forests we’re taking a happy little stroll through, lest you’ve forgotten the handful of darkspawn we just battled. I’d like to, I really would, but the safety of you recruits has to come first.” She crossed her arms. Alistair looked her up and down in mock outrage, and crossed his arms back with a scoff. “Oh no. Two can play at this game. And, just so you know, I win games often, and I have a lot of practice with this one. Have you forgotten that I was trained as a Templar? That’s practically the entire job: stand around and look imposing and disgruntled, with your arms crossed. Don’t play this game with me.”

The Warden-Recruit thought of her brother, in these same unfriendly Wilds, and how he did not know of his family’s demise. She thought of him _never_ knowing, should something happen to her or to Duncan or to King Cailan, the only people who knew of the treachery that occurred. She thought of the way he’d spend his life in agonized uncertainty, always wondering why Howe betrayed their family, wondering why his young son could not be spared, and how badly he would yearn for a keepsake of the child he’d have given his life for, if only he’d had the chance.

“I’m not leaving,” she said, icily, “without that lockbox, one way or another. I’ll go myself if I have to, and I’ll kill every darkspawn that stands against me.” She paused, giving him a onceover, and then said, “Also, you never became a Templar, so I’d win by default.”

Alistair threw his hands up in indignation. “I completed the training! I have _mastered_ the brooding look! I’m serious, they test you for it. If you’re not broody enough, you can’t take your vows.” She snorted, trying to cover it up with her hand, but he’d caught it and looked wildly satisfied with himself for a moment, before he cleared his throat and pointed out, “You realize I have seniority over you, don’t you? I’m technically in charge here.”

Fine. If he wanted to be difficult about it, she could play dirty. Uncrossing her arms, she softened her shoulders into meekness, holding the letter in front of her as though it were precious. She took a cautious step closer to him, peeking up at him through her lashes with the most imploring look she could muster. “Please, Alistair.”

He stammered. “Oh, you conniving little . . . You don’t think I know what you’re doing? Because I do. I know exactly what you’re doing. I’m not stupid! Do you really think that sneaky trick will work on me?”

“Yes?” she tried, hopefully.

“Well, you’re right.” He heaved a sigh, rolling the muscles in his neck to get the kinks out, like a man with the weight of all of Thedas on his shoulders, and when he tilted his head back to her, he looked at her like he was trying to figure her out. “Northwest at those Chasind ruins? Fine. We’ll sweep the area _on our way back._ We’ve yet to find the archives, and I’d rather not delay. I’m serious when I say it’s dangerous out here, and I’m capable enough to protect you ─ all of you ─ but I’m just one man. There’s a horde out there. Your safety has to come first ─ all of yours, even Daveth’s, and I don’t care for Daveth. I jest. Don’t tell him or Duncan I said that. Please.”

She brightened, and knocked her fist against his splint mail. “Thank you, Alistair. You’ll be happy we did it once you get those warm, fuzzy feelings from being altruistic.”

“Oh no, I think I’m allergic to those,” he said dryly.

The Warden-Recruit gave him a sickly sweet smile when she began their descent down the hill, back into the depths of the wood. He drifted after her, like she had him on a leash. “It’s a good thing you’re not allergic to losing, as well.”

Alistair almost looked impressed. “I hate you.”

Morrigan was gone as soon as they were in familiar territory ─ she’d hardly spared them a goodbye, though Alistair clutched his pack to his chest like he was worried she’d steal the treaties back again, even as she slipped into the thicket. The Warden-Recruit watched the treeline, but there was no sight of Morrigan making her way through; it was almost as though she’d simply vanished, or became very small. The relief that sagged the men’s shoulders was almost palpable.

It was a simple trek back. Most of the darkspawn were dead, and any stragglers that came to investigate the stench of blood were quickly disposed of. The sun was very readily setting, however, and Alistair’s shoulders grew more tense the darker it got.

He must have noticed the Warden-Recruit shooting him glances every other minute, because when she shiftily looked at him again, he groaned, _“Yes,_ I haven’t changed my mind. We’re still going. Just . . . try and be quick about it, hey? These Wilds are bad enough when the sun’s out. Also, I want dinner, and I’m cold, and I hate you still.”

Pacified, she chirped, “Good man!” and took point ─ though, really, she’d been leading them all along. It came naturally to her, and Alistair seemed content to keep back and watch the recruits display their courage and their competence in battle. She wasn’t sure if he was assessing them or not, though she didn’t understand why he’d need bother: Duncan had, supposedly, handpicked all of them himself, having been impressed by their skills or their valor. Perhaps he simply wanted to see what Duncan had seen in them.

Well, she could be a good sport, but she also had quite the competitive spirit. Whenever she felt Alistair watching her, she fought twice as hard, or rushed to the aid of one of the other recruits, or added a little posturing display to the beheading of a darkspawn, purely for aesthetics; if there were anyone she’d have wanted to impress, it was the younger Warden, as much as she liked Duncan. The one thing she needed now, more than ever, was a friend who was her equal ─ and the hope that, maybe, life in the Wardens wouldn’t be so terribly glum.

The grasslands of the ruins were soaked in blood, soggy under her sabatons as she hauled darkspawn corpses away from the campsite set there, with Jory’s help. They all spread out over the sparse area, Daveth half-buried in the tent as he pulled it apart, ser Jory peering around the empty ruins for signs of disturbed earth, and Alistair standing nearby, head cocked like he was listening for something.

Aged soot and ash coated her leather gloves as she pawed through the fire pit, and she only stopped when she felt something hard dig into the bones of her fingers. She wrenched it out, and there it was: a lockbox, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, dirty but intact.

The Warden-Recruit blurted, _“Aha!”_ as she sprung to her feet in triumph and marched up to Alistair. His back stayed to her, but when she stepped into place beside him, he was clearly fighting a smile, his mouth a wobbly line and his eyes bright with mirth as he refused to look at her. Primly, she reached into her pack and produced a handkerchief with a flourish, which she delicately held out to him.

“What’s this?” he asked, even as he let her deposit it into his hand.

“For when you start sneezing,” she told him, displaying the lockbox between them like a merchant selling a man the finest of jewels for his spoiled, darling wife. “From all the fuzzy feelings you’re about to get.”

He broke instantly, a grin spreading out over his face as he rolled his eyes in exaggeration. “Oh, you’re cute. You should know, they only let one comedian into the Grey Wardens at a time, and I’m already filling the spot. We’re in desperate need of a silent, brooding Warden, though, and I think you’d take to that role with a shine.” He wiped his face with the pristine cloth, staining the white fabric with dirt and blood, and then dropped it back into her hand. “Thanks for that.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Flatterer.”

She laughed, only just managing to cover her mouth with the back of her wrist, clutching the ruined handkerchief and refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her giggle. He was directing a fond look at her nevertheless, gentle in the eyes and his mouth just barely quirked up at one corner.

Then Alistair turned his head, whistling sharp for the other recruits’ attention. “All right. I don’t see any injured soldiers who need help, I see no more dead missionaries, no ashes to rub on rocks, no secret caches, no witch-thieves, no wolves, and no more blighted darkspawn. Back to camp, now. The real test begins very shortly, and I’m sure Duncan is eager to begin. Let’s not make him send a search party for us.”

“We get to eat first, right?” Daveth smacked a hand over his stomach. “A man’s fit to starve with all this runnin’ around.”

“Weren’t you, you know, a cutpurse? In Denerim? Wasn’t your whole thing running around and being hungry?” Alistair asked, as he began to lead them back down the footpath. “Shouldn’t you be used to this by now?”

The Warden-Recruit snickered, but she lagged behind so that she might use the soiled cloth to gently wipe the dust away from the lockbox, revealing the embossed metal, the latch that held it shut. The voices of the men grew distant, partly from the slow pace she’d taken up and partly due to the focus she afforded her task, gently swiping the ash away from the box and examining it under the quickly-diminishing sunlight. She thought of the poor woman who would receive this memento, whenever the Warden-Recruit found a messenger to run it to Redcliffe, and it was a bittersweet feeling at the back of her throat. When she looked up, the Wilds stretched out before her ─ part of her entertained the idea of running into them. Making a break for it and searching for Fergus, wherever he was, and escaping with him so that they might visit vengeance upon Howe.

And then she thought back to the Bannorn: streets lined with sunken faces, hands outstretched for even a copper, people frightened of the darkspawn threat, people grieving as their spouses and children marched to war. There were people who were powerless to change the world around them, who needed a voice . . . or a heavy hand that would strike on their behalf.

Her father was always insistent that, to a Cousland, duty came first. They pledged themselves to serve their country.

Fergus still lived. He would become Teyrn of Highever, and he would serve Ferelden that way ─ and perhaps, she would serve Ferelden this way, as a Warden, a pillar against the Blight.

“Alistair,” she said, finally looking up from her work. The man wasn’t so far ahead, and he adjusted his gait until she was side by side with him.

“What now? Oh, don’t tell me. You’ve just seen an orphan with one leg in the distance, hobbling away from a group of Chasind witches, and you want us to run in and save him and give him all the silver I have on me and then get him adopted, maybe give him a puppy ─”

“Thank you.” It came out more somber than she intended, but she’d meant it all the same. Alistair must have seen the sincerity in her expression, because his sardonic grin dimmed, a mixture of curious and discreet. “I mean it. This is ─ this is good. This will be good. This will bring peace to someone who’s suffering. Something so small will be so meaningful to the wife who needs it.” She looked up at him. “This is what it’s about, isn’t it? The Wardens? In peace, vigilance ─ and in vigilance, peace.” The Warden-Recruit paused, sucking in a breath audibly as she debated on whether or not she wanted to continue; when she spared Alistair a glance, he simply watched her, waiting for her to go on. “I . . . I didn’t want to be a Warden, you know.” 

The confession made something like disappointment flash in his eyes, but she hurried on before he could decide she was a coward, or selfish, or that he didn’t like her. “I mean, I was interested, when Duncan came. I wanted to hear all about it, and I wanted to fight. I’ve always been rather good at it, or so I’ve been told, but the ─ the circumstances to get me here were,” she cleared her throat, unable to meet his eyes, “not ideal. But this is what it’s about, isn’t it?” She held up the lockbox. “It’s helping people. Bringing them peace. Now I find myself wanting nothing more than to be a Grey Warden. I want to serve, more than anything.” She thumbed at the glossy lacquer of the latch, not opening it; it was one of Missionary Rigby’s last requests, that it remain shut until in the hands of his widow. “I don’t know if I’d have come to this conclusion so quickly if you didn’t humor me with this. I’ve lost so much so recently, and I’d been unable to give up on the life I had before, even though I knew I could never have it again . . . but I have hope that I might find purpose in this new life, now, as a Warden. In a way, this tiny box has brought peace to me as well. Thank you.” 

He studied her intensely. There was something pinched in his face, like he was hurt. The corners of his mouth drew down, brow furrowed and set: the look of a man preparing to rip the arrow from his skin, or pull the knife from his flesh. She blinked up at him, a little dumbly, until he finally said, “I . . . you’re welcome.” He put a hand onto her bicep and squeezed, a little too hard, but he seemed unaware he was being overly firm. “Let’s not get distracted. There’s still ─ you’re not ─ let’s not get distracted.”

Crestfallen at his dismissal, though she’d never admit it, she demurely placed the lockbox into her pack, turning her eyes away from him. “Weren’t we having a moment? I was thinking of making you a friendship bracelet and all.”

He cracked a smile, though it was weak, a little fragile. “All right, but it has to be green. Or yellow. Brings out my eyes, or at least that’s what a very pushy merchant in Denerim once told me.”

The Warden-Recruit laughed, accepting his peace offering and shoving at his shoulder. There was a strange, severe give to him when she pushed, and when she looked to see why he’d drifted so far, he was bouncing away from her on one foot, both arms up and bent at the elbow, braced at his sides like he was preparing to leap into icy water.

“Don’t ─”

And then he’d bounced back, ramming into her with his shoulder and sending her tumbling off the path. Daveth’s hearty guffaw was obnoxiously loud as the Warden-Recruit flailed her arms and fought to regain her balance, and Alistair simply grinned at her, hands resting proudly on his hips.

“Catch up, recruit!” he barked, faux-commanding, and whatever cloud that had seemed to settle over him had dispersed just as quickly. “We’ve work to do! You’ll never make the Wardens at this rate! Hup! Hup!”

The trip back to Ostagar was much faster, though that may have had something to do with Alistair jogging ahead every time the Warden-Recruit tried kicking his feet out from under him, cackling all the while.

Darkspawn blood tasted ─ she wasn’t sure how to describe it. It was like molten metal on her tongue, coppery and tangy like all blood, but there was something distinctly rotten about it. Pure decay, a mouthful of putrid decomposition and something more sinister, full-bodied and pungent and raw. She felt animalistic about it: a sensation reminiscent of a starving predator gorging itself on a long-dead animal found deep in the woods, so driven by hunger that the disgusting, spoiled nature of the meat mattered not. It burned going down her throat, settling like hot steel in her stomach, and Duncan’s grip on the chalice was the only reason she didn’t drop it in her instant nausea.

It hit her all at once, a slow daze interrupted by agony, like she was set alight; but the flame licked brutally under her skin, singing her muscles apart and boiling her blood. Each throb of her heart felt like skin and sinew being cut into, carved backwards, and peeled away from bone that splintered apart from the heat like a tree caught in a fire.

She could see it, in front of her: a dragon, huge twisted teeth and all, its body lined with putrefaction. More than that, she could _smell_ it, like ash and smoke and blight, until she couldn’t breathe with it clogging her nose, burning her throat with the overwhelming stench of it. She was teetering on the edge of something, and while she _knew_ she was throwing her arms out to catch herself, she couldn’t see them. The only thing she could make out was the dragon, facing her head on and roaring a hideous sound so loud that she almost thought her ears were bleeding, and there was a pitched chiming in her head that had her stumbling to recalibrate herself.

The ringing got louder, and louder, and the dragon’s milky eyes met her own ─ somehow, she knew hers mirrored the archdemon’s, white and glassy, and the repulsion that came with the knowledge had her clawing at her face, desperate to pull the eyes clean from her skull lest the dragon see through them, as though they were linked. Even with her hands right in front of her face, she couldn’t discern the shape of her fingers, her wrists. But when she looked down, she could see it, staining her stomach like blood: the corruption, deep inside, seeping into her muscle and her organs and polluting her. She was tainted, she was tainted, and she needed to get it out ─

It ebbed slowly, much slower than it came. The ringing hushed over time, dim, and then mute; she was aware of her legs kicking out vehemently, and there was ragged breathing, wet and horrible in the silence of the evening ─ her own, she realized, and the gulps of air felt like needles going down her throat, blossoming in her lungs as painful spasms. Anguished, she tried to twist away, but the agony wasn’t borne of anything physical, and she couldn’t escape it, try as she might.

The next time she opened her eyes, she could just barely make out the shape of Duncan’s face, and Alistair’s just beyond it. Disoriented, she flung a hand out, unable to tell if she was standing and if she needed to keep balance; Duncan caught it, patting the back of it soothing and firm. Once her vision finished swimming, she met Alistair’s eyes, and the first thing she saw was relief, set deep in his brow and the little glint of hope she thought she could read in his eyes, honey-colored and warm. She stared at him, uselessly, and then looked to Duncan.

“It is finished,” he said, somberly. “Welcome.”

“Two more deaths.” Alistair leaned back, turning his face away. “In my Joining, only one of us died, but it was . . . horrible. I’m glad y─” he stumbled over his words, so slight and so brief that she admittedly didn’t notice, “─at least one of you made it through.”

The Warden realized she was on the floor. When she let her head loll to the side, she met Daveth’s empty gaze. Jory sat further on, slumped against the wall in a pool of his own blood. She wondered if his wife was sitting down at their home, giddy with excitement that her husband was going to be a hero, a hand on her swollen belly as she fantasized about telling their unborn child every single feat her husband accomplished. The Warden choked out a groan when she turned her face back. Alistair rewarded her with a sympathetic smile.

“Tell me about it,” he agreed, as Duncan hauled her to her feet. Somehow, she managed to stay upright ─ and she was all the better for it. Once she’d stood, the nausea and the aching passed quickly, and she was able to attempt to regain her composure ─ she wasn’t optimistic about how successful it was. “Did you have dreams?” Alistair seemed very serious, suddenly. “I had terrible dreams after my Joining.” She must have been gawking at him, because he laughed. “Dumb question? I’ve been told I ask those a lot. I once asked the Revered Mother ─ er. Another time.”

Duncan had cut Alistair off with a stern glance, but he spoke to the Warden, “How do you feel?”

“Nothing you said could have prepared me for that.” Her voice sounded disconnected from her.

“And now you realize why we say nothing at all,” Alistair pointed out, but she was distracted by the gleam of metal in his hands. He held it up, once he realized she’d seen it. “An amulet, filled with the blood,” he explained, “to remind us of those who ─” He looked to Jory, to Daveth. “─ Didn’t make it this far.” 

She must have looked shell shocked, still, because he eased towards her, unclasping the pendant and fastening it around her throat. He laid it over her collar, palm resting firm on top of it; it scratched against the metal of her chestplate, quiet, but the sound helped ground her to reality. Duncan was watching them, silent, thoughtful. “Hey,” Alistair said, almost gentle, and she felt herself calm slightly when she met his eyes and saw the uptick of the corner of his mouth. “You made it. You’re a Grey Warden now. You’ve found your purpose.”

When he noticed Duncan watching, his hand peeled away from the amulet. The Warden took it in her fingers and looked at the surprisingly simple pendant, lined with silver. She could have sworn it almost felt warm against the pads of her fingers, thrumming with life, but she dismissed it as her imagination. 

“As much as I wish we had more time to settle,” Duncan said, “there’s unfortunately still much to do. The battle is only hours away. Alistair . . . the bodies of our brothers, if you please.”

“I would not, but of course.”

Duncan gave him a sad little smirk, and then he gestured to the steps that led inwards, towards the camp, meeting the Warden’s eyes as he did so. “I’ve been asked to attend the battle plan at the king’s behest, and I’d like for you to join me. When you’re ready, come find me at the war table.” Something halted him as he made to leave, and he looked at Alistair slyly from the corner of his eye. He pressed a hand onto Alistair’s splint mail, and he said, tenderly, “This suits you, Alistair.”

The Warden felt as though she missed something, and Alistair’s face had started to turn pink. She looked between the two of them, and then Duncan was quietly slipping down into the open room before them, calmly making his way towards the war table. The Warden cocked a brow at Alistair.

He cleared his throat, dismissing the topic with a wave and a noncommittal, “He was soft on the recruits, too.”

She looked down to the men who, unfortunately, didn’t make it. “Ah. I’m sorry.”

“Huh? Oh. Yes.” He furrowed his brow while he studied the corpses. “Their names will be recorded into the archives at Weisshaupt. To remember their courage and their sacrifice.” Another broad motion from his arm, to the amulet still in her palm. “And you, of course, will carry their memory, too. They were our brothers.”

Solemnly, the Warden watched the bodies with Alistair, quiet for a time. She wanted to say something heartfelt, tinkering with the pendant as she sought something profound to impart upon him, something her father would have recited that would have made everything in the world suddenly make sense. What came out was, “Honestly, I’m glad to not have any more brothers.” Alistair barked out a guilty laugh, both brows shooting up in macabre amusement, and she held her hands out frantically. “That came out very, very wrong! I, ah, didn’t mean it to sound like that, not in the slightest. Of course I feel badly that they’ve died.” The Warden looked down to the corpses, a little more solemn. “I wish it were not so, but . . . they understood the risks.” She worried on her bottom lip with her teeth, awkwardly amending, “Or Daveth did, at least.”

Alistair hummed. “The Grey Wardens have no place for cowards,” he said, a little darkly, “but I understand Jory’s position. He should have just stayed home with his wife.” The Warden studied his face, starting to see him in a different light; he seemed less young, suddenly, harder in the jaw and more steely in the eye. “Or he should have seen this through. Given the nature of the Joining, however, there can be no turning back.” He crossed his arms. “Especially during a war. A Blight, at that.” He shook his head. “Poor sod.”

“Poor sod,” she echoed, sympathetically.

It was quiet between them for a moment once again, until Alistair inclined his head towards the Warden, smiling at her tauntingly. “So, you’re not about to consider me a brother, then? Such a shame. I was rather looking forward to having a sister.”

She fake wretched. “Maker, no. One brother was enough for a lifetime. I really don’t need another brother who pulls my hair and flips my skirts up in front of the handsome boy I’m trying to talk to.” Alistair all but guffawed in her face, delighted and mean-spirited, and she grimaced at him. His eyes were sparkling and bright. “Yeah, I figured you’d like that. You and Fergus would get along, I think.”

“You and I get along well enough,” Alistair said, grinning at her. “Look at you. Just one of the boys, indeed.”

The Warden made a very rude gesture. “Right. Enjoy cleaning up those corpses by yourself.”

He put a hand to his chest. “I’m wounded _and_ scandalized. Never you worry. I won’t tell Duncan of your heartless disrespect of our fallen brothers. Best be off before he begins to suspect nonetheless, hm?” He pantomimed rolling his sleeves up. “I’ll just be here. Dealing with corpses by myself. If you ask me, it should be the other way ‘round. I’m older, I should go to the war meeting. You’re new, you should do the busy work.” He clicked his tongue. “I really should be in charge around here. I’ve so many good ideas.”

The Warden laughed with no restraint as he spoke, hand pressed to her chest as she did. “You may be the older Warden,” she agreed, “but I think I’ve got you beat in years.”

His brow jumped up. “Do you? I’m twenty.”

“Maker. You’re so young.” She reached out, taking his cheek firmly between her fingers and wiggling them ─ he glared at her, but she noted he didn’t swat her away or make any attempts to escape her cheek-pinching. “I’m twenty-one.”

“Oh, shut up,” he said, finally smacking her hand away from him, and he rolled his eyes as she cackled. _“So young, Alistair._ It’s one year. I really do hate you.”

“We’re like siblings already!” 

“Is this what it’s like? Because I’m suddenly regretting ever wanting a sister.”

She trailed off into amused little hums, unable to help the little bursts of giggles that would escape her now and again as she tried to reign herself in. Alistair was grinning at her, and she had to make herself drift towards the stairway lest she spend all night making fun of him and being made fun of, thumbing at the pendant as she did. “Truthfully, though, Alistair.” She dropped the amulet heavy against her armor, returning his smile as she descended down a step with one leg, half-turned to him. “I hope we can be friends.”

Alistair’s grin widened, somehow, all teeth, almost boyish in the way his eyes were lit up. “I thought we already were.”

The Warden knew her face must echo that same level of unbridled enthusiasm; a giddy kind of excitement at having found a partner in crime. She imagined their banter, the way they played off of each other, was going to drive Duncan mad. “Watch my back out there tonight?”

“If you’ll watch mine,” he answered.

She took her bottom lip between her teeth, giving him a short nod and then spinning on her heel, half-jogging down the stairs before she could say anything else. It was gladdening to know that she could still feel _optimistic,_ even as it made her nauseous with guilt, and she knew she must have been making a strange face once she fell into her place next to Duncan. Part of her felt as though she couldn’t possibly look forward to the future, that she was betraying the memory of Highever by daring to feel happy, or hopeful, anything besides despair.

She knew that wasn’t true, however. Her parents would _want_ her to live a happy, full life, but she also knew she wasn’t anywhere near coming to terms with their deaths; even thinking of it now, while Teyrn Loghain and King Cailan bickered over the war plans, made her feel weak with grief.

Still, as she looked up to Duncan, mapping out the exasperation in his face until he peeked at her from the corner of his eye and offered her a playful, secretive shrug of his shoulders, she felt maybe that she wouldn’t have to face it completely alone. She grinned at Duncan, was rewarded with a small smile in return, and she looked onward again to see Alistair’s shape lifting one of the bodies. They could never replace her family; they could never bring her the same kind of happiness the Teyrn and Teyrna of Highever had brought her.

But perhaps they could bring her another sort. Alistair had said it himself; she’d had purpose again. Once the battle was won, Fergus would return from the Wilds. They would grieve together, but he was alive, and he would be for a long, long time. Howe would be hanged. She would find a life with the Grey Wardens, and she would miss her parents for the rest of it, but she could still find happiness in duty, and in the friendship of those around her.

Duncan’s hand was firm on the small of her back as Cailan volunteered her and Alistair to the tower, and the act of it was comforting enough that she sounded sure and strong even to her own ears when she said, “Yes.”

The Warden would be all right. She had Alistair and Duncan, the war was practically won, and Fergus would come back, very soon.

Certainly a little optimism couldn’t hurt.


End file.
